by Amy Ewing
The girl laughed at that, slapping her knee. “Good for you, Kaolin lady. A girl must have some secrets, right?” She winked and Agnes felt herself momentarily exposed, as if this girl could see right to the heart of her.
“Will you give me passage to Pelago then?” she asked. “I can pay.”
She held out the bag and the girl took it and peered inside.
“This is not enough to get you to Pearl Beach, much less across the Adronic to the great nation of islands,” she said, handing the bag back.
“How much would it take to get to Ithilia?” Agnes asked.
The girl’s eyes roved over Agnes’s body, taking in her fine dress, gold jewelry, and the little hat perched on her head. Everything about her screamed money, and this girl knew it.
“One thousand krogers,” she said.
“One th—have you lost your mind?” Agnes cried. “That’s highway robbery!”
The girl shrugged and stubbed her cigarette out on the bollard. “That is my price. Take it or leave it.”
Agnes was about to storm away when a thought occurred to her. She glanced at the empty ship and then back at the girl. “You aren’t the captain of this vessel, are you?”
The girl’s posture shifted slightly. “So?”
Agnes folded her arms across her chest. “I would like to speak to the person in charge, if you please. Perhaps we will be better able to negotiate a deal.”
At that, the girl stood. She was taller than Agnes had expected, and she wore supple leather boots, dark pants, and a black vest over a white shirt, a fang hanging from a leather strap around her neck. The overall effect was quite impressive.
“I am Vada Murchadha,” she proclaimed. “Daughter of Violetta, who is captain of the Maiden’s Wail, and I am charged with its protection until my mother and the crew return from their business outside this filthy city. So as far as this Kaolin lady should be concerned, I am the captain and I make the decisions.”
If they were going to be throwing around mothers, then two could play at that game. Agnes saw an opportunity and drew herself up, trying to imitate her brother’s swaggering arrogance as she said, “I am Agnes McLellan, daughter of Xavier McLellan and Alethea Byrne, and I demand you give me passage on the Maiden’s Wail so that I may return to my mother’s family in Pelago. You have heard of the Byrnes, I assume?”
Vada rolled her eyes. “Of course I have heard of the Byrnes. Who in Pelago has not? But you do not have the look of a Byrne.” She spit on the ground at Agnes’s feet.
“If you could see my brother, you would believe me,” Agnes grumbled. Goddamn Leo and his goddamn face.
Vada looked with exaggerated movements from left to right. “I see no brother,” she said.
“He isn’t here now, but—”
“Then you have no proof. Am I just to take your word?”
Agnes was beginning to feel helpless, and the worst part was that Vada seemed to be enjoying herself.
“Besides,” she continued, sitting back on the bollard and taking up her whittling, “I know how things work here. You need your papa’s permission for travel.” She looked from side to side again. “I also see no papa.”
“I did not think a Pelagan sailor would care a whit for Kaolin rules,” Agnes said. “I thought she would respect a woman’s right to do as she pleases.”
“Ah, but Kaolin women are not women. They are mice.”
Agnes bristled. “I’m no mouse. And I don’t think my grandmother would appreciate me being treated so rudely.” For the first time in her life, she prayed her father was right—that Ambrosine Byrne really was as intimidating as he had made her out to be.
Vada hesitated. Agnes could see her deliberating and held her breath.
“Eight hundred krogers,” she said.
“Five,” Agnes countered.
“Seven.”
“Six.”
“Six and fifty.”
“Done,” Agnes said. Vada held out her hand and she took it. Her palms were calloused, her grip steady and sure, and her smile was a clever one full of salt and schemes. Agnes found her mouth suddenly quite dry.
“You have a deal, Kaolin lady.”
“Agnes,” she corrected her.
“Agnes,” Vada said. Agnes quite liked the sound of her name the way Vada said it. “We leave in eleven days’ time.”
“What? No, that’s far too long!”
Vada pulled another cigarette out of her vest pocket. “It is not up to the lady when we leave. She is lucky enough to be buying passage.”
Agnes knew the truth of this and could not argue. But eleven days felt like a lifetime. She wanted to be on her way now.
“And I will be needing the payment up front,” Vada added, striking a match on the bottom of her boot and lighting the cigarette.
“I will give you half by the end of the week.” She wasn’t about to let this girl steal her money and run off to Pelago.
“You will give me all or the agreement is off.”
“And how do I know you will hold up your side of the bargain?”
Vada touched the fang around her neck. “Every Pelagan woman gives her daughter an endexen, a . . . how you say it, a token, at birth. This is mine. It was my grandmother’s and hers before her. Verini Murchadha chased a great blue-finned shark deep into the northern waters of Pelago and killed it with a single harpoon thrust. This is one of the beast’s fangs. It is more precious to me than anything in the world. I swear on the soul of my great-great-grandmother and the monster she killed, this ship will not leave without the daughter of Alethea Byrne on board.” Her voice held such passion as she made this vow that Agnes did not realize her body had inclined toward Vada until the girl grinned and said, “Or we could kiss to seal the deal. It is your choice.”
“What? I . . . no, I . . . that vow will do nicely,” Agnes stammered, her cheeks burning. She glanced around to make sure no one else had heard the offer.
Vada shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tossed her whittling knife in the air and caught it deftly. “It’s a shame. A pretty lady should be kissed well and kissed often. Or at least that is what my aunt says.”
Agnes was confused—was Vada flirting with her or mocking her? She’d never been flirted with before, so she couldn’t tell. And no one had ever called her pretty. She felt it best to leave while the deal was still in place.
“I shall return by week’s end with the money. Will I find you here?”
“At the Wolfshead Tavern,” Vada said. “Their ale is passable. Better than the piss most of the places around here serve.”
Agnes had never been to any of the Seaport taverns, nor had she ever tasted ale. “I will take your word for it,” she said. “Good afternoon, Vada. And . . . thank you. Um, feados na thaeias dul leatsou.”
Vada raised one eyebrow. “Feados na thaeias dul leatsou,” she replied. It was a typical Pelagan farewell that meant “May the goddesses go with you.” “Your chauffeur teaches you well.”
Agnes hurried back along the docks, not daring to stop until she saw the green motorcar. She could still feel the rough warmth of Vada’s hand on her skin.
“All right then, Miss Agnes?” Eneas said. He was leaning against the hood of the car with the Old Port Telegraph in his hands. “Did you find the bracelets you were looking for?”
She’d forgotten all about the bracelets and took them out to show him, along with the walnuts, which he accepted eagerly and shared with her on the ride home.
They arrived back at the brownstone on Creekwater Row to find the house in utter tumult. Mrs. Phelps was ordering Hattie and Janderson around, Swansea kept bustling from room to room, and there seemed to be a slew of new servants cleaning everything from the carpets to the banisters to the lamps.
“What’s going on?” Agnes asked as a flustered Hattie came rushing up to unpin her hat.
“There’s to be a party here tomorrow evening,” she said. “A private party for some very important people. Your father wants the place s
potless. He’s ordered food from the finest shops in Old Port, and wine too. He was very particular.”
“A private party? For what?” Agnes couldn’t remember the last time her father had held a party in his own house.
“I don’t rightly know,” Hattie said. “But miss, I’ve got to polish the silver. . . .”
“Of course. I’m going to retire to my room for a bit.”
“I’ll come to dress you before dinner,” Hattie said before scampering off to the dining room.
Leo was standing at the railing, looking down at the hustle and bustle in the foyer below. His face was pensive, his mood almost brooding. Agnes thought that strange—Leo loved social gatherings more than anyone else in the family.
“What’s this party for?” she asked him.
He started, as if he hadn’t even seen she was there, and touched his cheek, an odd gesture Agnes didn’t understand.
“Her, I think,” Leo said, and he sounded distracted. “The silver girl.”
“A party for Sera?” Why on earth would her father be throwing his captive a party?
“What did you call her?” he asked, and she pressed her lips together. She hadn’t been thinking. Vada’s soft gray eyes and sly smile had her all out of sorts.
Leo took a step forward. “Sera?” he said. “Agnes, how do you know her name?”
“Oh, like I’m going to tell you,” she said. “You’ll just run off to Father, and the two of you will find some way to make that poor girl even more miserable. And I won’t help with that.”
She expected some sharp retort, but instead her brother seemed to sag. “You don’t know anything,” he said, turning and trudging back toward his room.
“Leo,” she called. “Are you . . . all right?”
His door closed with a click, and Agnes was left with more questions than her mind could answer.
What had her brother so gloomy?
And what was this party about?
But the most pressing of all: How on earth was she going to get six hundred and fifty krogers by the end of the week?
20
Sera
SERA SIPPED AT THE CUP OF WATER FRANCIS HAD LEFT her for the night as she waited for Errol to emerge from his pond.
She had been so close! She had gotten free of the crate. Whatever that red-haired male had given her to make her fall asleep, she didn’t like it. It had made her limbs slow, her brain fuzzy, until her magic had burned away every last trace of it. She had been shocked when Boris had moved, knocking Leo right off his feet.
Well, now he knew what it felt like. Sera could not spare an ounce of pity for him. She only had enough for herself. She had not been able to see the tether through the glass ceiling, but that did not mean it was not there. If only she could get outside. She needed a spire to climb, someplace high where she could see for miles. Until she was certain her City was truly gone, she would not give up hope.
Her thoughts turned to the other male who had come yesterday, the one with the green eyes and dark hair who they called James. His face kept popping up in her mind for some reason. It was extremely irritating, but she could not seem to stop it. She rubbed at her eyes, as if that would make the vision disappear.
“No nasty humans poking and prodding at Errol today!” The mertag climbed out of his pond, cackling his strange croaking laugh. He plucked one of the luminescent flowers and popped it into his mouth.
“Oh no, don’t!” Sera cried. “Those are our only lights.”
“Don’t, she says? Don’t?” Errol squared his small shoulders. “I am a mertag and I make these flowers. More light she wants? Well, by urchins and eels, more light she will have!”
He dug his clawed hands into the moss and gritted his teeth. His whole body, from head to tail, began to pulse in stunning colors, like his filaments but on a much larger scale. Purple, then pink, then orange. Purple-pink-orange. Purple-pink-orange. Sera watched with wonder as tiny fronds began to sprout from the moss, blossoming right before her very eyes. Soon it was dotted with glowing flowers, giving off more than enough light to see by.
She could not help herself—she clapped enthusiastically at the display.
“How did you do that? It’s beautiful.”
Errol looked smug. “It is all part of being a mertag, Sera Lighthaven. We have sharp brains, yes, but not only brains. There is magic in our scales.” He examined his handiwork. “Though I confess I have never made so many at once before.”
“There is magic in my blood,” Sera said. “But it isn’t helping me much now.”
“You are speaking to a mertag,” he pointed out. “Humans cannot speak the colors.”
“That’s true,” she agreed. “But I want to go home, Errol.”
“Yes, home.” His filaments lit up in mournful greens and grays. “I am not meant to be here either, Sera Lighthaven. I miss the dark waters, the feel of the cold current over my scales, the familiar colors of my fellow mertags.”
They lapsed into silence. Sera clutched her neck where the pendant had hung, wondering if Leela had thought about her at all, if she missed Sera as desperately as Sera missed her.
The silence was broken by a gentle humming sound.
“What’s that?” she gasped, looking around.
“That is Tree,” Errol said. “Tree likes to hum sometimes.”
“They call him Boris,” she said.
The corners of Errol’s mouth turned down. “Tree is female.”
“Oh.” Sera glanced at the silvery trunk. “How do you know?”
He shrugged. “It is obvious.”
There was something soothing about the song Boris hummed that reminded her of the moonflower fields at sunrise and of the thick, soft fleece of a seresheep.
“I know you.” The voice came out of nowhere, and it seemed to echo in Sera’s head the way Errol’s did, except this voice, while deep and rich, was distinctly feminine.
“What was that?” she said.
“What was what?” Errol looked up at her, his mouth full of flowers.
“I know you,” Boris said again, and Sera was sure this time that it was directed at her. The Arboreal’s three eyes turned in her direction. They were dark and smooth like pebbles along a riverbank, full of wisdom and sadness. “Mother,” she hummed.
Sera was not a mother, and if she had been, she would certainly not be the mother of a tree.
“Who is your mother?” she asked, but Boris did not speak the colors, and Sera did not know how to speak the humming tree language. She splayed her hands wide and stared at them, as if she might be able to see through her skin to the magic inside. Mother Sun, but this was frustrating.
“I know your face,” Boris hummed.
“Tree likes you,” Errol said.
“She says she knows me,” Sera said.
“But you only just got here.”
“I know.” She felt as if she was on the brink of understanding something very important, but the answers were just out of her reach, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling down. She gazed up at the covered glass ceiling and wished she could see the stars. She had always felt guided by them. But now she was untethered and alone.
More humans came the next day, and this time there were females as well as males.
She was determined to be ready. She would not be stabbed with a needle or captured by a hoop. A change was happening inside her—she could feel it even if she did not truly understand it, and there was no green mother to ask. To be honest, she doubted her green mother would be able to tell her anyway. She had to learn for herself now.
The first to arrive after Francis had given her food and more water and changed the bucket she used to relieve herself was an older male with a tremendous amount of hair on his face. He had it tied in two prongs braided with red and gold ribbons. His skin was wrinkled as a walnut, and he wore two pieces of glass connected with wire over his eyes.
“Let me see her, Francis,” he said, climbing the steps to the sta
ge and rubbing his hands together. He knelt by the crate and peered inside. Sera hated the way he was staring at her, like she wasn’t a person at all.
“In the name of the One True God . . .” he murmured. The green-eyed male James had used the same invocation. Sera didn’t know who this One True God was, but she didn’t like him. “I heard she tried to run yesterday.”
“Yes, sir, but Mr. Kiernan and Mr. Roth caught her.” Francis stared down at his feet as if ashamed.
“I hope they have sorted out some way to transport her for this evening.”
“I believe Mr. McLellan has hired Pemberton men, sir.”
“Ah! A wise decision.”
Transport her? This evening? Sera’s mood lifted. Maybe they would take her out of the crate again. Another chance to escape was presenting itself so soon.
Others filtered in after that—there was a boisterous male with black hair on his upper lip and chin and a large woman with a heavily painted face who shrieked when she saw Sera and clutched at the male.
“Grayson, what is it?”
“My dear Gwendivere, I haven’t the foggiest,” the hairy-lipped male replied. “I barely understand any of this.” He gestured to Boris and then to the pond. “Old Xavier’s gone off his rocker, if you ask me.”
The woman named Gwendivere slapped his arm playfully. “You’re just mad he won’t be casting you in every play he produces anymore.”
“Yes, shockingly, I’ve enjoyed having a steady paycheck,” Grayson said. He called out to the man with the beribboned face hair. “What’s this one do, Martin? Will she turn all our hair blue or make our skin silver as the moon?”
What a ridiculous thing to say, Sera thought. How on earth would she be able to do either of those things?
“James will find out tonight,” the man named Martin replied. “There’s to be a little gathering at the McLellan house.”
“Xavier is throwing a party?” Grayson asked incredulously.
“Good morning, fellow thespians!” James’s voice echoed throughout the room as he strode up the aisle to the stage, taking the steps two at a time and finishing with an elaborate bow.
“Good morning, James,” Gwendivere said in a fluttery voice that made Sera’s nose wrinkle.
